


Old Habits

by smarshtastic



Series: SALTapalooza [7]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Memory Loss, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 10:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12529488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smarshtastic/pseuds/smarshtastic
Summary: McCree’s weight shifts on the bed. It takes Reaper a moment to recollect himself, but then a heavy weight settles across his lap. Reaper looks down to find McCree draped over his thigh. McCree’s cheek is pressed against the fabric of Reaper’s stolen sweatpants, his flesh hand clutching at the soft fabric. His brow is still furrowed, but less than before. His breathing seems to come easier.---Reaper doesn't remember what it's like to share a bed.





	Old Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Week Six of [SALTapalooza](https://saltapalooza.tumblr.com/)! Who doesn't love bed-sharing? This is a fourteen part series that will update every Saturday for the next eight weeks. 
> 
> Feel free to come yell at [me](https://twitter.com/smarshtastic/) or [fabrega](https://twitter.com/carithlee) about this on twitter. :D

They’ve been on the run for days on end without pause, pushing ahead, never looking back. There’s no time to stop and think twice: Talon is surely at their heels, and Talon is not known to show mercy. 

So when McCree stumbles and stops late into the fourth day, Reaper is annoyed. He wheels on him, only to find him doubled over and breathing hard. 

“Move,” Reaper growls. McCree lifts his eyes without moving his head, scowling at him from under the brim of his ratty hat. 

“I need a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute.”

“Well we can’t all be undead wraiths,” McCree snaps. “I need a minute.”

“We can’t stay here,” Reaper says. He looks around - the alley is cast in shadows of neon, the nearby signs of the street around the corner flashing erratically, signaling to passersby that their respective stores are open for business even at this hour of the night. The harsh light makes McCree look gaunt, throwing his eyes and cheekbones into sharp relief. 

“I know that,” McCree says irritably. “We need to find somewhere to lie low.”

“We can't stop.”

“Unless you want me to keel over, we're gonna have to.”

Reaper doesn't say anything. McCree snorts. He straightens, glancing both ways down the alley. 

“Right, stay here.”

“No,” Reaper says immediately. McCree lets out an exasperated huff. 

“You're gonna stick out like a sore thumb in a convenience store, even in these parts,” McCree says. “I need a few things. Just - stay here.”

Reaper melts into the shadows, hoping that McCree can feel his unhappy glare even if he's unable to see it. After another moment of hesitation, McCree turns and slips out of the alley. 

Death has made Reaper impatient. He remembers, faintly, being a patient man, deliberate, precise. While dying put a finer edge on some of these qualities, Reaper questions what, exactly, he's waiting for now that deserves his patience. There's nothing to look forward to - even death is no longer a mystery - so Reaper isn't inclined to wait around for something to happen to him. He's entrusted his fate to the hands of other people too many times before, and look where it's gotten him. 

Which makes his implicit trust in McCree all the more confusing. 

Reaper has no reason to trust him. He should have killed him when he had the chance - but something had stilled his hand. Something about McCree gave Reaper pause; something innate and inexplicable. And now, here he is: waiting in an alley in some exotic part of the world for McCree to return. There’s no guarantee that McCree will actually come back. He didn't even say that he would. Yet, McCree has gotten him this far - out of Talon and under the radar - it would be strange for McCree to abandon him now. 

Stranger things have happened, Reaper reflects as the minutes stretch on. 

Finally, McCree’s shadow appears at the end of the alley again. Reaper holds himself ready to wraith away - in case McCree brought backup, in case he's been followed - but McCree gestures with his metal arm, the other holding a paper bag to his side. 

“Come on,” McCree says. “I found a place for us to crash.”

Reaper doesn't move immediately. McCree lets out another exasperated huff. 

“Fine, fend for yourself then,” McCree says, turning away. Reaper waits for him to get a couple of steps away before he wraiths to him to catch up. McCree’s eyes slide sideways to look at the shadow as he reforms, but says nothing. 

It's late, but the neon signs lining the street make it nearly as bright as noon. McCree should look out of place here, but he somehow doesn't - he always had a knack for fitting in, even in the strangest of places, Reaper finds himself thinking. He isn't sure where the thought came from, so he pushes it away without examining it further. 

McCree leads him into what looks like an apartment building off the main road. He keys in a code and the door unlocks, allowing them both to pass inside. The inside of the building is ill-maintained and dark compared to the bright lights outside. Reaper doesn’t need his eyes to adjust, but McCree takes a moment before he leads Reaper up the creaky stairs. They take the steps all the way to the top and then turn down the hallway. At the end of the hallway, McCree keys into a door and steps inside. 

“Home sweet home,” he says. Reaper steps in behind him, wary. Everything he knows about McCree indicates that he's based in the American southwest, not… whatever city they're in now. Reaper doesn’t trust it. There hasn’t been any pattern to their wanderings, which is surely intentional, but it’s kept Reaper on edge. This new place, where McCree is obviously comfortable or at least familiar with it, only serves to underline Reaper’s distrust of the situation. He watches McCree move around the one room apartment, checking corners and under furniture in what Reaper recognizes as a security sweep. He stays by the doorway, waiting for McCree to give him the all clear. The apartment is small, unimpressive. There's a single bed shoved into one corner, piled with musty sheets. A single counter holds a hot plate and an electric kettle in lieu of a kitchen. A table and two rickety chairs stand near the counter and there's a sagging armchair in the corner across from the bed. The door which Reaper had initially mistaken for a closet leads to a cramped bathroom: a toilet and a very small shower stall without a curtain or door. A grimy window lets in the colorful neon lights from the street below, giving the room a strange sordid sort of glow. Everything is coated in a fine layer of dust; nobody has been here in some time. Still, better safe than sorry. Eventually, McCree, satisfied, sinks down onto the edge of the bed and pulls the paper bag into his lap. 

“What is this place?” Reaper asks, finally moving into the apartment for his own inspection. He drifts around the same path that McCree took, checking for himself all the spots that McCree checked as well. 

“Safe house,” McCree says. 

“Whose?”

“Mine, now.”

Reaper stops and turns his head to frown at McCree. 

“And whose was it before?”

“It doesn't matter,” McCree says, digging around in the paper bag. 

“What if they come back?”

“They did,” McCree says without looking up. He pulls out a pack of cigarillos, and a lighter. Reaper frowns. 

“What happened to them?” Reaper asks. McCree sets a cigarillo between his lips and raises his eyes to look at Reaper as he lights it. 

“You’re lookin’ at him,” McCree says. He takes a long drag from the cigarillo and then exhales, his shoulders slumping forward. “This used to be a Blackwatch safehouse. Fell off the radar at some point.”

“Someone knows it’s here, then,” Reaper says. 

“That someone would be me - and the man you used to be,” McCree says with a shrug. “Ain’t nobody else remembers this was here. Or they don’t care. Or they’re dead. So.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you,” McCree says. “Look, it’s our best bet. All I need is to catch up on some sleep, and then we can get moving again.”

Reaper gestures to the cigarillo. “That’s not sleep.”

McCree rolls his eyes. “Recharge, too. Eat something. All that stuff living people do,” he says, looking away with a strange expression coming over his face. If it's supposed to make Reaper feel a certain way, the joke is on McCree: Reaper still doesn't feel much of anything, even free of Talon’s various controls. 

Reaper moves around the small room, restless. He doesn't like this; he’d rather keep moving. Stopping like this gives Talon a chance to catch up. But Reaper has to admit that the reason he's gotten his far is thanks to McCree - and he wouldn't get much farther if McCree happened to drop dead. So, Reaper has to acquiesce if either of them have any hope of continuing to evade Talon’s clutches. 

There's a crinkling sound as McCree opens a protein bar that draws Reaper’s attention. He looks over at McCree again, but McCree’s eyes are closed as he chews slowly, the cigarillo burning down between his fingers. Something flickers in Reaper’s chest, but he doesn't give it time to ignite. Instead, Reaper tugs on the collar of his hoodie and moves to the sagging armchair. He settles in, impatient, trying not to count the seconds as they tick by. 

“Can you keep watch?” McCree asks, standing again to stub out his cigarillo in the sink. He bends over the basin to splash some water over his face. 

“Yes,” Reaper says. McCree dries his face with his sleeve in the crook of his arm. He looks at Reaper critically. 

“Are you gonna kill me in my sleep?”

“I haven't yet,” Reaper points out. 

“I ain't been sleeping either.”

Reaper rolls his eyes. “You said you need to recharge. So,” he gestures at the bed. “Recharge.”

“I just need a couple of hours,” McCree says, moving back to the bed. “Then we can get moving again.”

“Fine.”

Reaper sits very still, face shrouded by his hood but his eyes staying on McCree as he kicks off his boots and takes off his hat. The hat is placed carefully on the nightstand. The garish gun with the spur is removed from its holster and slipped under the pillow, on which McCree now lays his head. He curls up on his side and goes unnaturally still, the rise and fall of his shoulders slow and deliberate. Reaper knows the exact moment that McCree falls asleep: the furrow in his brow doesn't even out, and his body remains curled up and tense, but the quality of his breathing changes. 

Reaper doesn't relax back into the armchair but he allows his body a slight reprieve. In spite of what McCree may think, he  _ can't  _ go on forever, undead or not. He needs to recharge too. Of course, Reaper isn't exactly interested in revealing that weakness to McCree. Reaper watches the neon lights flash patterns along the wall, letting his mind drift. 

The whimper pulls Reaper back to the present. 

Reaper blinks rapidly, pulling his molecules back together to clear his vision. He listens. 

Another whimper. 

It takes a moment for Reaper to place it: it's coming from the bed. From McCree. 

Reaper stands up soundlessly and approaches the bed, cautious. He stands at the foot of the bed and looks over McCree’s sleeping form, curled up tight on top of the musty sheets. His brow is furrowed, his face pressed against the hard metal of his arm in a way that must be uncomfortable. As Reaper watches, McCree lets out that small whimper again. His eyes move rapidly behind closed lids. A nightmare. 

Something in Reaper’s chest flickers again - he should do something. He's at a loss, though, as to what that might be. It feels like he  _ should  _ know, but it's a distant should - like someone had told him once, in passing, a long time ago. 

Maybe he should wake him. 

Reaper dismisses that idea; if he wakes McCree, then McCree won't sleep, and they'll be even further delayed. He has to let McCree sleep. 

McCree whimpers again. 

Reaper reaches out to to touch him, but stops just before his hand connects with McCree’s shoulder. The last time he had touched McCree, Reaper had tried to strangle him. Reaper’s touch is certainly unwelcome. Reaper draws his hand away and sinks down on the edge of the bed. McCree senses the shift in weight, but doesn't wake up. Reaper holds very still, listening to McCree’s panicked breathing even out again. Poor survival skills, Reaper thinks. But then, in spite of everything, McCree seems to trust him. 

Reaper settles onto the edge of the bed, back against the headboard and one foot on the ground in case he needs to get up in a hurry. He lets his mind drift again, doing his best to let what's left of his body repair itself. 

He remembers how McCree had recoiled when he saw Reaper’s face. Reaper has no use for vanity, but he knows what he looks like, under the mask. Whatever Talon had done to bring him back from the brink of death hadn't been enough to repair the damage done to his body. There had been a struggle, McCree had knocked Reaper’s mask away and then the breath left his body, his eyes widening in horror. Reaper had sneered, the row of teeth showing through his torn open cheek, exposed and gory. Like something out of a horror movie come to life. The surprise always works in Reaper’s favor - it usually gives him the upper hand - but the fight went out of McCree entirely, and, for some reason, Reaper didn't take advantage of it. It was something in McCree’s eyes that gave Reaper pause. 

It wasn't the first time that Reaper had encountered McCree, and it wasn't the last. But that day, something had shifted between them. It put into motion the series of events that led to this moment; Reaper perched on the edge of the bed while McCree sleeps - albeit restlessly - inches away from him. At least he's not whimpering any more. An uneasy trust. 

They haven't talked about it, either. There hasn't been time. Running from Talon, concealing their tracks and obscuring their whereabouts has taken all of their energy. 

Furthermore, Reaper doesn't like talking. 

Reaper lets his mind wander again, watching from the corner of his eyes as the wisps of smoke start to rise from his arms. He closes his eyes, aware of his molecules separating and reforming and separating again…

McCree’s weight shifts on the bed. It takes Reaper a moment to recollect himself, but then a heavy weight settles across his lap. Reaper looks down to find McCree draped over his thigh. McCree’s cheek is pressed against the fabric of Reaper’s stolen sweatpants, his flesh hand clutching at the soft fabric. His brow is still furrowed, but less than before. His breathing seems to come easier. 

Reaper doesn't understand, but he also doesn't dare move. McCree’s left hand is still tucked under the pillow with his ridiculous gun - Reaper is certain that a wrong move would result in McCree drawing his gun and, while a shot from the gaudy revolver won't  _ kill _ Reaper, it will still sting. 

Besides, this is almost... pleasant. 

McCree’s weight is solid in a way that Reaper didn't realize he missed until he was confronted with it. The heaviness of McCree’s body against Reaper’s thigh grounds Reaper in reality in a way that he's almost forgotten completely. He feels - perhaps for the first time in years - substantial. 

Reaper looks down at McCree, takes the time to really look at him. He's skinny, the dirty clothes hanging on his body in a way that suggests there used to be more there - muscle, maybe, given his build. His hair is long, greasy, unkempt, falling in his face, which is weathered by sun and creased with worry. There's dark circles under his eyes. 

Something flickers in Reaper’s chest again. This time, a word floats through his mind and connects with the feeling:  _ tenderness _ . 

It takes several minutes for Reaper to register the meaning. The only emotions he remembers knowing have nothing to do with tenderness. Anger. Vengeance. Hunger. Desperation. Fear.  _ Anger _ . Tenderness comes out of nowhere, completely novel and foreign. He looks down at McCree again, at his face with his pinched brow, and that flicker of tenderness returns, flaring brighter this time. 

Reaper doesn't understand. It's best to ignore it. 

So he does. He sits very still, even as McCree creeps steadily further into his lap, octopusing around Reaper’s waist, pressing his face into the hoodie over Reaper’s stomach. McCree’s fingers clutch at him but his brow begins to clear. Reaper does his best to keep his form solid to support his sleeping body, watching McCree’s expression soften incrementally as the minutes tick by. He has the unfamiliar urge to run his fingers through McCree’s lank hair. He doesn't, but he imagines what it might feel like between his fingers. It's a strangely calming experience. 

The sky outside the dingy window begins to lighten, washing out the flashes of neon until all that's left is the soft yellow glow of the morning sun. McCree shifts in Reaper’s lap, then stiffens. Reaper doesn't move, unwilling to break the peaceful spell that had come over him. After years of unending anger and pain, the reprieve was wholly refreshing. 

“You're warmer than I thought you would be,” McCree says eventually, his words slightly muffled as his cheek is still pressed into the hoodie. Reaper glances down at him. 

“Cell regeneration,” Reaper says. McCree turns his head slightly to look up at him, his eyes searching for Reaper’s face under the shadow of his hood. 

“Oh,” McCree says. 

“Did you sleep enough?” Reaper asks. McCree reaches up and pushes back his hood. Reaper doesn't flinch - he's too well trained - but he holds himself ready to fight if he needs to. But McCree only looks at his exposed face, the crease returning between his brows. 

“Enough,” McCree says. He gets up, leaving Reaper’s lap cold and lighter. He steps into the bathroom and shuts the door with a snap. After a moment, Reaper hears the water in the shower splutter to life. Reaper looks down at his empty lap, suddenly, acutely, feeling the loss. 

=-=-=

It becomes something of a pattern. McCree leads Reaper on a circuitous path around the globe before they finally settle in a small cabin tucked into a snowy mountain. Before they settle, though, there's weeks of running, switchbacks, covering their tracks. They hopscotch from one safe house to another. 

Every time McCree lies down to sleep, Reaper positions himself nearby. The whimpers start up. Reaper moves within reach. Inevitably, McCree finds his way into Reaper’s lap or tucked into his side. The whimpers cease and the nightmares subside and McCree’s brow clears when he clings to Reaper, so he allows it to happen. 

They don't talk about it. 

Sometimes, Reaper thinks McCree will say something when he wakes. He almost always pushes Reaper’s hood back, his eyes scanning Reaper’s monstrous face, but he never says anything. 

“What are you looking for?” Reaper asks, finally, one morning, somewhere hot and sticky. McCree’s mouth twists into something unhappy. 

“Nothing,” he says. It's clearly a lie. Before Reaper had the chance to ask another question, McCree stands and shuts himself in the cramped bathroom. 

Reaper doesn't ask again, but he wonders what it is that McCree thinks he might find hidden in the cracked and smoky remains of his face. 

The snowy cabin they settle on is remote and sparsely appointed. Reaper watches from the doorway as McCree makes his usual circuit around the safe house, dusting off surfaces as he goes. This place feels familiar, more so than the other places where they've hidden. Reaper looks around curiously before McCree finally sinks into a seat at the rickety table. 

“We’ll stay here for a couple of days,” McCree says. 

“And then?”

McCree hesitates. Reaper doesn't like that. “And then we're gonna go see someone.”

Reaper really doesn't like that. “Who?” he asks, voice going hard. In the weeks they've been on the run, the uneasy trust they've established hasn't been meaningfully challenged in any way. They've watched each other’s backs, there's been a few close calls, but nothing meaningful enough to swing the pendulum in either direction. 

“She's a friend. Or she used to be,” McCree says. He looks away. Distrust mounts in Reaper’s chest. Coupled with the unsettlingly familiar feeling of this place, Reaper is beginning to feel very unsafe. 

“No other people,” Reaper growls. McCree looks back at him. 

“Do you trust me?”

Reaper presses his lips into a hard line, which he's sure McCree can't see for the shadow of his hood. 

“No.”

Something like hurt flashes across McCree’s face. He turns away again, fingers drumming against the surface of the table. 

“Well, this ain't gonna work if you don't trust me.”

“What are you planning?”

“Nothing,” McCree shoots back. “‘Specially if you don't trust me.”

Reaper doesn't say anything for a long time. He's not sure what he should say, so instead he chooses to stay quiet. After a while, McCree gets up and finds a sleeping bag rolled up next to an armchair. Reaper watches him nudge a cushion down onto the threadbare rug and kicks off his boots. McCree wiggles into the sleeping bag and zips it up to the top, turning on his side away from Reaper. 

That's that then. 

Reaper should leave. There's no point in sticking around to see what kind of person McCree wants to bring into… whatever this is. Reaper should have left McCree several cities ago. He doesn't need him to hide from Talon, not any more. He knows far better than most what Talon is capable of, and if Akande has his way, it's only going to get worse. He can't articulate why he stayed with McCree for as long as he has, and the utility has long since faded. Reaper looks out the window. It's almost pitch black outside. If he leaves now, he'll have several hours of cover before -

A small whimper escapes the cover of the sleeping bag. Reaper is already moving to McCree’s side, automatically, out of habit, before he catches himself. He stops just short of McCree’s little nest on the floor. Why is he doing this? His mind is a swirling mess of conflicting emotions - many more than he's used to feeling, and too many to make sense of. He scowls under his hood. He should go while he still has time. 

Another whimper. 

Reaper automatically sinks down to McCree’s side. Something about the way that his presence brings comfort to McCree as he sleeps is undeniably pleasant, satisfying. It has become a spot of relief in an otherwise hazy, persistent cloud of anger. Like a drug addict, if Reaper could just get one more fix, maybe it would be enough to sustain him after he leaves McCree for good. 

Reaper scoots closer to McCree’s body wrapped up in the sleeping bag. McCree doesn't seem to respond how he usually does; the furrow in his brow doesn't clear, and another whimper escapes his throat. Annoyed, Reaper scoots even closer. Still, nothing. 

He studies the sleeping bag - a barrier between himself and McCree. It feels like a physical manifestation of the wall that suddenly came up between them. He could pull the zipper down without disturbing McCree, he’s pretty sure. He waits, listens. McCree whimpers. Reaper makes a decision. Before he can change his mind, he wraiths down into the sleeping back along the zippered side, sliding down the edge of McCree’s body and pulling the zipper down as he goes. He wraiths back up and settles at McCree’s back where he reforms, spooned up against his back. There’s barely enough room - Reaper’s own backside is mostly exposed through the opened sleeping bag - but he feels some of the tension go out of McCree’s body. Reaper lets the sensation wash over him, his eyes going heavy-lidded. 

“Do you remember this place?” McCree asks, his voice coming out deep and rough. Reaper stiffens. He starts to move away, but McCree reaches back and grabs his wrist with his metal hand. Reaper could easily break the grip - or at least wraith out from under his fingers - but, for some reason, he doesn’t. 

“No,” Reaper says, making no further attempt to move. He feels McCree’s grip slacken, but he still doesn’t make any attempt to get away. McCree rolls over with some difficulty, turning to face Reaper. It’s too dark to see much of anything, but Reaper can feel McCree’s eyes on his face. He finds himself wondering what McCree thinks when he sees his face. 

“You’ve been here before.”

“I don’t remember.”

“It was a long time ago.”

Reaper doesn’t say anything. He hears McCree let his breath out through his teeth.

“Do you remember anything before Talon?” McCree asks. 

Reaper hesitates. He does remember things - bits and flashes - but the feelings associated with those memories only bring him pain. He learned to associate the past with his anger, to let the memories of injustice drive him to pursue vengeance. Memories of unfairness, injustice, betrayal by those who were supposed to be loyal to him but sold him out, left him to hang. He called upon those memories when he hunted down former members of Overwatch. Those memories motivated him to bend Talon to his will, to use their resources to exact his revenge. It was effective right up until it wasn’t - until Akande came back, with his differing ideas on how to best put Talon’s resources to use. The infighting within Talon seemed painfully familiar to Reaper, for reasons he couldn’t explain. Reaper had the opportunity to leave, and McCree provided the means. 

“Some things,” Reaper says finally, carefully. 

“Like what?” McCree prompts. He’s looking for something, Reaper can tell, but he’s not sure what it is that McCree wants. 

He knows that McCree was part of Overwatch - part of Blackwatch, even, the organization that Reaper himself had helmed when he was still alive, still Gabriel Reyes. He knows, by way of research, rather than his own memories, that Blackwatch handled the unsavory business of Overwatch, that Blackwatch is supposed to be one of the biggest reasons Overwatch fell. McCree is supposed to have been a large contributing factor. 

“You have a scar on your left side,” Reaper says, surprising himself. He feels McCree go rigid, still pressed up against his body. “A knife wound. You almost died.”

There’s another long silence that stretches between them. 

“What if you could remember more?” McCree asks, voice quiet, almost rough. His body is still tense. 

“I don’t want to,” Reaper says immediately. It comes out automatically, before he has a chance to really think through what McCree is asking him. After a moment, he adds, “Memories have only brought me pain.”

“I know the feeling,” McCree says. He exhales. “I can’t stop you if you want to go. But I think I can help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Reaper scoffs. 

“What if - what if you could be better, though?”

“Better?”

“Whole again?”

McCree’s voice wavers. Reaper gets the impression that he’s grateful for the darkness of the cabin.

He hadn’t considered himself anything less than whole - so the question rings oddly in his ears. 

“Why would you want to help me?” Reaper asks instead. 

“I left you once, Gabe,” McCree says. His voice is thick. “I ain’t making that same mistake twice.”

An overwhelming flood of emotions crashes over Reaper’s mind. He doesn’t understand more than half of it - he doesn’t understand why he can’t make himself leave McCree behind - and  _ yet _ something inside him is telling him to trust McCree. 

“Who did you want me to take me to see?” Reaper says finally, after several minutes of silence. He feels the tension leave McCree’s body. Suddenly, both of McCree’s hands reach up and cup Reaper’s face. He feels the cold metal of McCree’s fingers against his exposed jaw bone, but the warm, fleshy hand doesn’t shy away from the clammy skin. It’s not a threatening gesture - in fact, it feels… tender. 

“Someone who can help,” McCree says. “She can help us. Do you trust me?”

Reaper doesn’t hesitate this time. “I do.”

It happens before Reaper realizes what is happening: McCree closes the distance between their faces and presses his mouth to Reaper’s chapped and peeling lips. It’s warm and soft and completely alien to Reaper - it seems entirely too delicate to be coming from a man like McCree. It’s over in a moment, then McCree is leaning his forehead against Reaper’s in an unfamiliarly intimate gesture. 

“Okay,” McCree says, letting his breath out. “Okay. We can work with that.”


End file.
